One Year Later
by frenchthemagicllama
Summary: John is plagued by nightmares of Sherlock's death. One year after the fall, he falls into a drunk sleep only to be awoken by the best friend he thought he'd lost...
1. Chapter 1

"_It's my note."_

_No._

"_Goodbye, John."_

"_NO, DON'T!"_

_Sherlock flings himself from the impossibly tall building, falling at a fatally fast speed, yet he doesn't seem to be getting any closer to the ground. I plunge forward, desperate to reach him before he hits the pavement; but the more I run, the further away the hospital seems to get. A giant bicycle comes towards me, attempting to blunder my efforts to save my best friend. _

_I'm nearly there. I can save him. I have to save him. _

_The bicycle hits me in the leg, causing me to crash to the ground just as Sherlock's already lifeless body smacks the concrete. I've failed him. With loss in my heart, I begin to get up, the need to get to Sherlock still as strong as ever. _

_But as I look up, I come face to face with the cyclist who knocked me over. It's Moriarty..._

With a yelp, John woke up. "It was just a dream, a nightmare," he whispered out loud, desperate to shake the image of Sherlock's dead body from his mind. It had been almost a year since his death yet John could never erase the memory from his mind.

The phone call, the jump, the fall, the death, the loss – they never left John alone.

John looked over at his alarm clock. It was ten to five in the morning. It was going to be a long day.

Ignoring the sharp pain in his leg, John got up and went into the kitchen of his small, one bedroom flat to make tea. He stood there, staring out of the window at the bleak, foggy sky, completely silent. There was not a sound in the flat, and it still felt unusual. There was no random gunfire, no fighting, and no repeats of the word "bored."

John looked down at the tea he'd been making. Two mugs of steaming hot liquid were laid in front of him. He'd never gotten out of the habit of making tea for Sherlock as well...

On the first anniversary of Sherlock's death, John got drunk. It wasn't that he'd never been drunk before, he'd just never gotten drunk because he was unhappy until that day – not even during the lonely months after retiring from the army. He quite simply missed his friend, and the reminders of the date as he flicked through TV channels and read the paper just made it that much more unbearable.

He began his first bottle of cider at about three in the afternoon. He slumped on the couch, clutching the bottle tight in his hands as he tried in vain to hold back the tears in his eyes.

By five, John's thoughts and feelings had become a soothing blur. He laid on his side on the couch, letting the jumbled memories of Sherlock lull him to sleep...

_I walk over to Sherlock, my cheeks flushed, with butterflies swarming my stomach restlessly. He smiles down at me - a true smile that reaches his striking light green eyes._

"_Hello, John," he murmurs, his thin fingers reaching for mine. _

_I look up at him as I fold my hand around his, smiling back. "I've missed you, Sherlock Holmes."_

"_Just as I have missed you, John Watson."_

_Then he brings his face down to mine as I raise my hand up to one of his sharp and glorious cheekbones._

_His lips grow closer; our eyes close simultaneously, breath against breath..._

"John!"

John jumped out of his slumber, startled and bewildered, to find himself face to face with the one and only Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

**[Slightly longer than the first chapter. I'll probably revise it later, edit some bits out, but for now I just want to get the story written down and uploaded. Chapter 3 will be written and uploaded tomorrow. ]**

The year had passed ever so slowly for Sherlock. Every day he had longed for a case, for a cigarette and, most of all, his only friend, John.

Molly and Mycroft had both played a part in Sherlock's "death", Molly more so than Mycroft. It had been tedious for him having to work with them. First, they each tried to talk him out of his plan, convince him there was another way to go about it. Then, after that had failed, they began refusing to do what Sherlock asked. They had only two days to sort it out and Sherlock grew impatient. He gave up with the idea of having Mycroft's help and swore him to secrecy, then attempted to flirt his way into receiving Molly's help. While Sherlock had thought his acting had been terribly unconvincing, Molly fell for it anyway.

Poor girl, he thought.

It wasn't as if Sherlock had _wanted_ this to happen. Why would he want to leave John, the only person he truly trusted? However, he valued John's life over anyone else's, including his own, and while Sherlock couldn't fathom why this might be, he saved John's life anyway – however much it hurt them both.

So Sherlock spent the year in hiding in Molly's flat. She had been delighted; he found it torturous. Every day he'd walk into the room to find himself face to face with her lustful eyes, when more than anything he wanted to be left alone to think of John.

After five months and seven days, Sherlock deemed it acceptable to ask for Mycroft's help again. He needed to know how John was doing. Was he well? Was he still living in 221B? Was he with some new unbearably dim-witted woman?

So he sent Mycroft to try getting John's acquaintance. At first, it seemed as if it might fail. John refused to forgive Mycroft for, as he put it, "selling Sherlock out". But, finally, after a month or so, he finally began to accept Mycroft's weekly visits and apologies. In fact, they were now quite good friends – or at least Mycroft had stopped whining every time Sherlock sent him out to check on John.

But even with the constant stream of information, Sherlock missed him. He had refused to accept this for a while; normal human emotions were of no interest to Sherlock. However, after a while, the uncomfortable little ache Sherlock felt whenever he thought of his best friend grew too frequent that he could no longer ignore it. He hadn't been sure of what to do with this feeling other than try and get more information on John's wellbeing, but it wasn't enough.

After almost a year passed, he took to secretly visiting John's flat. He didn't think anything of it, but Molly and Mycroft had both deemed it rather inappropriate and made many attempts in vain to convince him not to. Despite this, Sherlock made his way towards John's flat once a week.

It had been slightly disappointing for Sherlock when he found out that John had moved from 221B. So many memories had been made there, ones that Sherlock actually felt the need to hold on to.

John's new apartment showed many signs of sadness, from the collecting dust all over the furniture, to the worn out channel button on the Sky remote. Despite this, Sherlock felt a sense of being at home when he stood in the flat. John's presence was everywhere, and this comforted Sherlock somewhat.

Sherlock didn't intend on showing himself to John. His intentions were to visit occasionally to make sure that Mycroft wasn't lying to him and to fill the loneliness in his heart, until John moved on. Then he would go back into hiding and... Well, Sherlock hadn't worked that out yet. What did normal people do when they were indoors? Watch drama on BBC? Read fan fiction? Molly spent a good amount of time doing that.

However, on the anniversary of the day Sherlock pretended to kill himself, he could not hold himself back. He snuck into the flat in the evening to the strong smell of cider and other various alcoholic beverages. As quietly as possibly, Sherlock walked into the living room to find John passed out on the floor, a can of beer crushed in his hand with a small amount of blood dripping onto the carpet from where the can had clearly cut his skin.

Idiot, Sherlock thought, slightly affectionately.

And that was when the sadness overtook him. He looked down at his best friend, the depression so clear on all his features, even in sleep. Yet something looked peaceful about John's expression, as if he was experiencing a pleasant dream.

Sitting cross legged on the floor beside John, Sherlock watched him cautiously at first, hardly daring to move. Then he gently took John's bleeding hand in his, stopping the blood dripping onto the carpet and instead letting it drop onto his lap.

"Sherlock..." John muttered under his breath, unconscious. Sherlock jumped slightly and whispered back "John?" Of course, there was no answer, but Sherlock was blinded and confused by the tears now pouring out of his eyes; he craved to hear John's voice again.

"John!" he shouted, desperate.

John woke up, disorientated. He looked at Sherlock incomprehensibly. Sherlock's lips began to form into a small smile when John's fist collided angrily with his cheek.


	3. Chapter 3

It can't be Sherlock, John thought. This is just... Just some prick, playing a trick on me.

Everything was spinning. John could barely make out the room he was in, let alone the man in front of him. However, John still managed a well aimed punch in the man's cheek, which was answered with a cry of pain.

John slumped on his side, feeling confused, tired, and nauseous. Perhaps he was still dreaming, or perhaps he'd drunk so much that he was imagining things; either way, all John wanted to do was go back to the place in his mind where it was just he and Sherlock.

"What the hell is going on?" he mumbled. The man in front of him was shaking him gently, talking in a voice with the same sound and speed as Sherlock's. Could it be? No, of course not, Sherlock was dead.

The man was still talking in a voice that seemed desperate for John to listen. He shook John more vigorously, shouting his name, until he eventually groaned back "What?"

John sat up, trying to focus his attention on the man before him while simultaneously trying to keep himself from being sick. His eyes strained in the darkness to make out the features of Sherl – the man. It just couldn't be him, it couldn't...

Piercing grey eyes were boring into John's, thick eyebrows knitted together, perfectly formed lips moving at a speed most would deem impossible for lips to move.

"...And I'm incredibly sorry, which, as you're aware, isn't something I say very often. John? John? John, are you listening to me?"

"Sherlock?" John whispered, still hardly daring to believe it was really him.

The world tipped to the side and John slipped back into unconsciousness.

When John woke up again, he found himself in his bed with a glass of water on the table beside him. He couldn't remember going to bed, or getting a glass of water, or any of the events from the night before. Yet, he had a nagging feeling that something significant had happened.

It was light outside and his alarm stated that it was 8am. His head was pounding, so he took a sip of water while vowing to himself never to drink again.

The door opened, startling John and causing him to drop his water all over the covers as –

"Good morning, John," Sherlock Holmes's head popped around the door. John saw a small bruise had formed on his cheek and suddenly everything came flooding back.

"_John, it's okay, I'm alive." Sherlock whispered as John looked at him, enraged eyes flooded with tears._

"You're alive," John stated, numb with shock.

"You're hung-over," Sherlock replied quietly, a small but nervous smile playing on his mouth.

Anger flooded John at his words. It had been a year; a year full of loneliness and believing Sherlock was dead, and all Sherlock could say to John was "You're hung-over."

"No shit, Sherlock!" John shouted, getting out of bed with his fists balled up. Immediately, he collapsed back down.

Sherlock rushed towards him with his arms outstretched, only to make contact with John's fist for the second time in 24 hours. No, John was not letting him get away with this. He had been completely heartbroken by Sherlock's apparent death, and now all he wanted was for Sherlock to feel the pain he had for all those months.

"John, I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered as he nursed jaw.

...

"John, please."

...

"John."

"What the fuck, Sherlock?" John screamed. His head throbbed at the sound of his own voice but he didn't care. He was pissed off, and Sherlock needed to know. "You died. You jumped off a hospital roof, or at least I thought you did. I held your dead body in my – ...You left me for a year, Sherlock Holmes. I've been so alone. Why did you do that, Sherlock? Why didn't you just text, show yourself, anything? Why –" John cut himself off with a sob and buried his face in his hands.

"I know I've hurt you..." Sherlock began in a slow and shaking voice. You bloody well have, John thought, unable to talk. "I am sorry. I had to. It hurt me too, John, believe me. That's why I've been coming to your flat every –."

"YOU WHAT?" John glared up at Sherlock.

"I don't see what's wrong with it, quite frankly."

"Do you really have no -?"

"John, please. Allow me to explain myself."

John looked up at the man who seemed to never feel any emotion other than boredom to see tears falling down his face. More than anything else that had happened in the last 24 hours, this shocked John the most.

"Okay," he resigned, laying back down in bed and shutting his eyes.

"Thank you," Sherlock whispered. "You see..."


	4. Chapter 4

Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock did possess the ability to feel emotions – he just chose not to invest in them.

However, at this moment in time, as he looked at the hung-over man he had missed for many months, he couldn't control it. Tears ran relentlessly down Sherlock's cheeks and he found no way to stop them.

"You see..." he choked out, desperate to explain to John why he had done what he had, but for the first time he was unable to find the words to start. All he really wanted was for him and John to go back to their friendship before Jim Moriarty had invaded their lives, a wish that went so much against logic that Sherlock grew angry with himself. Why was he being so pathetic?

"Sherlock..." John's voice, so full of concern and pity, sent an even larger stab of annoyance through Sherlock; he didn't want John to see him like this, weak and vulnerable. Sherlock took a deep, steadying breath and delved into his explanation.

"Moriarty was clever, almost too clever. He manipulated the media, the public, everyone, into believing I was a fraud. He nearly managed to trick you..."

"He did not!" John muttered.

"...He was clearly out to get me and bring me down, kill me even. I easily figured this out, but how to avoid it? That was much more difficult. I knew he wasn't going to kill me personally, so I knew he'd make me kill myself. It's his style, big and dramatic; Confessed Fraud Commits Suicide. A perfect end to a perfect tale. So I planned with Molly and Mycroft to have me pretend to kill myself by jumping off the hospital roof and into a truck filled with various items to break my fall. I had two squash balls under my arms to stop the pulse in my wrists, and I had the help of an aspiring makeup artist to cover my head with fake blood while you were hit by that bike. She did an okay job, but surely even you could have realized that the blood was flowing in the wrong way?"

"Clearly not..."

"You're a doctor, for crying out loud, John! Never mind. Anyway, after I faked my death I had to stay with Molly. It was torture, believe me."

"Really? You think staying with Molly was torture while I was here, thinking you were dead? And you didn't even explain why you did it." John's voice rose heatedly.

"I know..." Sherlock replied. He didn't want to explain, relive the idea that John's death had come so close. However, John deserved to know why. Even Sherlock knew how unfair it was not to tell him.

"As you're aware, Moriarty had hired assassins. He instructed three of these assassins to kill you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade unless I admitted I was a fraud and killed myself. Believe me, though, John: I am not a fraud, and I did not want to hurt you. I wanted to keep you alive."

There was silence as Sherlock watched the comprehension appear on John's face.

The silence lasted for a long time. There was nothing to say anymore. Sherlock had explained, and now all he could do was wait for John to say something, to show that he understood, to show he still wanted him around...

"Get out." John's voice was hard and cold. It did not quiver, it did not break; it was emotionless.

Sherlock looked at John's face, trying to work out what was going on. Deducing crimes was simple, but human emotion... That was another thing.

"Please understand, John," Sherlock pleaded, feeling idiotic at the sound of desperation in his voice.

"I understand."

"Believe me, John."

"I do. I believe in you, Sherlock. Now leave, I need to be alone."


	5. Chapter 5

** [Three rather short chapters today. I'm not sure if it's the fact that I'm tired, or if a subconscious part of my brain decided short chapters were effective.]**

A week had passed since the encounter, and John was still obstinate that Sherlock was still dead – and that he was finally losing his mind.

Even so, he continued to feel completely numb with shock. He took to sitting in his room, drinking continuous cups of tea and thinking. He thought about all the memories he and Sherlock had experienced together, and he thought about the way Sherlock would save his smiles for John, and he thought about the fall, and he thought about the hallucination.

Most of all, John thought about the dream he'd had in his drunken state. Why had he dreamt it? Why would Sherlock appear in such a seductive and attractive manner? John wasn't attracted to him... Was he?

It doesn't matter, John thought to himself. Sherlock's dead.

He's alive, another part of John's mind replied vehemently.

This internal conflict continued for some time until there was the sound of someone knocking on John's flat door.

"John! John, the most amazing thing has happened!" shouted the excited cry of Mrs Hudson.

It had been months since John had seen his old land lady, and while he did not feel up to visitors at present, he also felt the obligation to let her in. John opened the door to her only to have her arms fling around his neck.

"He's alive, John! Sherlock Holmes is alive!" She began sobbing uncontrollably into John's shoulder as he slowly processed what she had just said.

Sherlock's alive. John hadn't had a hallucination, or a dream; Sherlock was really alive.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock paced around Molly's flat as he often had done in the past months. He would frequently find himself pacing from dawn until 'til dark, thinking mainly but also remembering. This wasn't like Sherlock however a year without John caused him to recollect their memories together.

A week had passed since the encounter, and Sherlock had grown deeply unhappy and much more obsessed with the memories. He took to writing them down, making music about them, and even attempting to draw them. He eventually managed to fill an entire notepad with stories, scores and sketches. Molly had grown deeply concerned with Sherlock's peculiar behaviour and encouraged him to speak to John.

"Sherlock, why don't you call him?"

"I don't call people, Molly, I text."

"Text him then."

Sherlock turned to Molly and sighed. "He told me to get out, Molly. He doesn't want me around anymore."

Molly looked up at him, slightly exasperated. "Sherlock, how will you know if you don't try? Mrs Hudson was happy when you went and saw her, I'm sure John will be equally as happy to take you back in. He was just shocked."

Sherlock sighed once again and reached for his phone. "Fine," he muttered, his fingers hovering over John's name. "I'll try."


	7. Chapter 7

_John, if convenient please meet me at 221B Baker St in an hour. I am incredibly sorry. _

_ SH_

John stared down at the text, his heart hammering. Mrs Hudson had left two hours earlier after a lengthy talk on Sherlock's appearance to John. Mrs Hudson had convinced him to give Sherlock a chance to make it up to him, to explain fully. She believed it had been just as painful for Sherlock as it had been for John. John doubted this, but agreed that maybe he should let Sherlock have a chance. After all, hadn't John been wishing for Sherlock to be alive for over a year?

Checking his watch and quickly estimating that it would take about half an hour to get to his old place of residence, John got ready properly for the first time in months. He showered, chose his favourite jumper, ironed his jeans and even gave his hair a bit of a comb. He wasn't entirely sure why he felt the need to put effort into his looks for Sherlock, but continued to do so anyway.

John grabbed his jacket and looked over his barren flat, the cold and emptiness of it sending a shiver through his body. With butterflies in his stomach, he left the flat to head towards 221B Baker Street.


	8. Chapter 8

**[Okay, last chapter. Longest one yet I think. Sorry it took so long to upload, there have been distractions like other fan fics and Tumblr and Skyrim and general procrastination. I will most likely edit this chapter in the future but here it is for those who've been asking for it. Thanks for the reviews and favourites. Hope you like it! Epilogue or follow up? Maybe.]**

John had been standing outside his old flat for 5 minutes trying to work up the courage to knock on the door.

Sherlock had been pacing up and down the short distance of the living room for half an hour waiting for John to arrive.

What if this is just a trick? John thought.

What if he's not willing to forgive me? Sherlock thought.

Taking a deep breath, John gave three short raps on the door just as Sherlock opened it, wanting to go wait outside for his best friend.

They looked at each other for a moment, John's hand still suspended in the air mid-knock and Sherlock's hand still resting on the door knob. There were no words to describe how each was feeling. Relief, happiness, fear, and above all a sense of being reunited.

It was Sherlock who spoke first.

"Welcome home, John Watson." He gave John a small smile and stepped back, gesturing towards the unchanged flat.

John lowered his hand, nodded awkwardly at Sherlock and limped in. His eyes scanned across each of the many features of 221b he had come to love. Mrs Hudson had left everything, despite her words at the graveyard. Each item so unique, reflecting Sherlock's personality. The violin lay on Sherlock's armchair, the skull stared menacingly at John from above the fireplace, and the face on the wall had more holes than John had ever seen before. He felt at home for the first time in over a year.

Sherlock looked over John as discretely as possible as John looked around the room. From the bags under his eyes and the way his head lolled forward slightly, Sherlock could tell John hadn't slept in a while. His posture was bad, showing he'd spent a lot of time over the last few months lounging around. All in all, John didn't seem happy in the slightest.

John yawned, feeling drowsy from the recent nights of little sleep. He didn't want to stand up for much longer but he felt too awkward to sit down in the armchair he'd once called his own. It didn't feel right.

But it looked so inviting.

"John, take a seat," Sherlock murmured.

He watched John walk over and sit down on the chair Sherlock hadn't dared touch since his return to 221b. Sherlock then made his way over to his own chair, moving the violin and placing it in his lap as he sat down.

Silence consumed them both. Neither of them had any idea what to say. Sherlock had been hoping John would be the one to break the ice but it seemed John was just as lost for words as Sherlock.

After what seemed like another year, Sherlock was once again the one to speak first.

"Good punch last week."

John looked at Sherlock, feeling half angry half amused at his words.

"I'm sorry about that."

"Apology accepted."

Silence.

"I'm... sorry, John," Sherlock whispered. What else could he do? What else could he say? He couldn't make it up to John, he knew that, but he wanted forgiveness. He'd explained why, surely he understood? John was compassionate, kind, forgiving, everything that Sherlock wasn't.

"I can't forgive you yet, Sherlock. It... hurt."

John saw he disappointment in Sherlock's eyes. Maybe he deserved to be forgiven. He'd explained and apologized. What else could he do?

Suddenly, Sherlock looked at John with an expression of curiosity. In the pit of his stomach, John felt dread. Sherlock being curious about something was never a good thing.

"John, when I found you in the flat what were you dreaming about?"

Is he serious? John thought to himself. He felt uncomfortable, growing hot on his cheeks. He didn't want to discuss this with Sherlock. Not now, not ever. Anyway, weren't they meant to be sorting things out? Trying to find a way for Sherlock to make it up to John?

Sherlock looked at John's blushing cheeks and felt a sense of adoration. It was fleeting but it was certainly there. Sherlock frowned. Adoration was never something he felt. It was a strange sensation that gave him the urge to... Kiss John.

John looked at Sherlock and saw a look of confusion. It was adorable.

Adorable? John thought to himself. Since when have you found Sherlock adorable?

Kiss him? Sherlock thought to himself. Why in the world would you want to kiss John?

"What did you dream about, John?" Sherlock pressed, trying to disguise his thoughts.

John looked up at Sherlock and once again could not stop thinking about how cute he was. His eyes looked over the sharp and beautiful edges of Sherlock's high cheekbones, over his strong jaw, into the green eyes. He'd never noticed how interesting Sherlock looked.

Sherlock's feelings towards John strengthened the longer he watched the changing expressions on his face. His face... Sherlock could have sworn that his face had never looked so handsome before.

"You..." John whispered.

"Me what?" Sherlock asked, sounding distracted.

"You. I was dreaming about you."

Sherlock sat there, feeling a bit shocked. Me? Why would he dream about me?

Something dawned on John. Sherlock wanted to pay him back for the pain he'd caused him. He'd interrupted John's dream, it had never finished. Maybe he could finish it for him.

"John! Answer me!" Sherlock was staring at John, wide eyed, confused.

"What?"

"Why were you dreaming about me?"

"I know how you can pay me back," John said, trying to keep his voice even.

"What?" Sherlock sat there, growing angry. All he needed was a simple answer! "What has that got to do with anything, John?"

"You'll find out."

John stood up slowly. He felt as if he might faint, or as if the sound of his heart might drive him insane. His legs carried him forward towards Sherlock, who looked up at John frowning.

"John?"

A strong but shaking hand took Sherlock's, sending a warm feeling through his stomach. John pulled Sherlock up and against his chest.

"John, what-?" Sherlock began to feel nervous, yet it was a good type of nervous, one he'd never experienced before.

John pressed his lips against Sherlock's once, not sure on how he was going to react. As he pulled away, he saw a look of comprehension on Sherlock's face.

He understood. John had dreamt of them kissing, which is why he had looked so happy. Sherlock had stopped the dream before they could kiss.

I guess that makes sense, Sherlock thought.

Then the both of them gave into instinct and kissed. Awkwardness soon turned to passion as they embraced each other, pouring the hurt and the loss they'd felt for over a year into each other. They shared the love they'd hid from one another and themselves.

The kiss lasted 365 seconds. And it was perfect.


End file.
